


Flinch

by Jinmukang



Series: Whumptober 2020 [24]
Category: Batman and Robin (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Blackmail, Blindfolded, Blindfolds, Blood, Child Abuse, Death Threats, Evil Slade Wilson, Gags, I CANNOT STRESS ENOUGH THAT SLADE IS A BUTTHOLE, Knives, Sensory Deprivation, Though the threats are vague and only happens in chap 2, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Torture, Vomiting, Whumptober 2020, im sorry damian stans, in this fic at least, no.24, only threats, the poor boi has it rough in this one, there will be no actual rape/non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:33:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27170449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinmukang/pseuds/Jinmukang
Summary: Slade blackmails Dick into joining him. Things go downhill for Dick when Damian tries to get involved and Slade decides the interference is a perfect opportunity for a lesson in torture.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Slade Wilson
Series: Whumptober 2020 [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1946413
Comments: 42
Kudos: 111
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> im sorry
> 
> please keep warnings in mind. this is heavy on torture... specifically torture of a child.
> 
> -hides under a rock-

The gym is the only place in this entire mansion where Dick feels safe. Or, at least a little in control of his life. It's been months since he's sold his freedom, and while he's allowed free reign of the entire building excepting the west wing and the basement, there's hardly anything he can do in any of these empty rooms besides glare holes in the walls.

At least, while he's in the gym, he can pretend the faceless punching dummies belong to Slade Wilson. 

Because fuck that guy. 

It's the safest place in the mansion. It's the only place he's allowed to work himself up to the point of hitting, kicking, and screaming. As long as he doesn't harm the equipment or himself, Slade doesn't care what he does in here. Granted, if he shows his frustration too much _anywhere_ , Slade will use it against him. Which is probably why whenever Slade needs something from him, he looks for him inside the gym.

So maybe it's not the safest place in the mansion.

But it’s still better than cold, empty rooms.

And Dick doesn't really care anyway. Everything stopped being safe the moment he was pinned to the carpet of his own apartment and whispered to that… that…

His knuckles ache. The punching dummy just wobbles, and Dick wonders what would really happen if he tore it apart. 

He doesn't even get to entertain the idea of slamming his fingers into the tiniest weakness of the padded fabric to rip it at its seams, because before he winds up for another punch, the sound of heavily booted footsteps make themselves known behind him. 

Which definitely means something is up. If Slade wanted to come in here just to mess with Dick, he could have easily left his movements more silent than a moth's wings. He punches the dummy, wipes sweat from his brow, then turns to glare at his captor. 

It's not Slade who looks back, but Deathstroke in full attire. 

Something is definitely up. 

"Apprentice," Deathstroke says smoothly, sending chills of annoyance down Dick's spine. He hates everything about this, but Slade refusing to call him anything other than _apprentice_ or _boy_ is just an insult to injury. It's like Slade owns him. Like Dick doesn't have a right to any other name. 

However, instead of lashing out like he oh so desperately wants, he straightens his posture, flattens his expression, and brings his hands behind his back to grasp onto each of his wrists. 

Time for the most humiliating thing of all of this. His mouth already tastes disgusting. 

"Master."

Dick can't see Slade's face under his mask, but he knows the other man is grinning. It's been months, and Slade has yet to tire from Dick's discomfort. 

"Tell me," Slade practically purrs, folding his arms across his chest and looking too relaxed. "Do you remember the conditions of your stay here?"

What's Slade's game? Why is he bringing this up now? Dick grinds his teeth for just a second before forcing himself to respond. 

"I do what you say, when you say it, and immediately follow any and all orders without question."

"And in exchange?"

Now Dick can't help but feel a little bit of his uneasiness show in his face. He swallows and shifts his feet. 

"You won't detonate the bombs."

Dick can practically smell Slade's smugness as he asks "and where are the bombs located?" 

Dick takes a deep breath. "Inside the skulls of Jason, Tim, Cass, Duke, and Damian."

How Deathstroke got the bombs inside all of their heads, Dick will never know. All he knows is that he came back from patrol one night to find Deathstroke sitting on his couch, the X-rays of each of their heads sitting on his coffee table. Of course, he didn't know it was _their_ heads until he was overpowered and manhandled to the ground so Slade would explain it all too happily. 

Dick doesn't know what Slade's plans are this time around. He hasn't done anything besides force Dick to train in various forms of combat. He hasn't said anything about joining his mission or killing people or… or _anything_. Just training. Dick's beginning to think he just enjoys having power over Dick. 

"Come," Slade says, forcing Dick from his thoughts, "I have something I need you to do."

Dick forces himself to nod, and not question why Slade brought the bombs up. He simply brings his hands to his front, unwraps the tape around his knuckles, and follows along even though the sweat sticking under his workout clothes is uncomfortable and he'd much prefer a shower before dealing with whatever Slade wanted from him. 

The walk through the mansion halls are as lonely as always. Dick's sure that even if Slade wasn't a jackass with the thirst to kill for money, this place would still be empty. The entire mansion was built somewhere within the Appalachian mountains, practically in the middle of nowhere. Hidden expertly within the trees and designed to be practically invisible to any eyes traveling above. To get here, they had to take a helicopter. 

A _helicopter_. Dick cannot stress that enough. 

He lets his mind wonder as he follows Slade. It's probably for some sort of training exercise outside. Maybe he's being brought to the gun range? He tries to tell himself it's nothing, but there's still an inkling of unease in his gut. 

Why did he bring up the bombs?

Slade suddenly comes to a halt, and it's all Dick can do to not slam into his back. He stops and looks at the door Slade stopped in front of with widening eyes. 

The door to the basement. 

One of three places Slade has forbidden. 

Slade doesn't bother with any dramatics like locks or passcodes. No doors are locked here. Dick knows better than to push anywhere he's not supposed to. 

The literal heads of his family are on the line. 

He watches with a horrible emotional cocktail of nervousness and curiosity as Slade turns the handle and opens the door. There's nothing special right away. Just stairs leading down into the shadows. 

"Follow," Slade says, and Dick does. 

The travel down is… uneventful to say the least. Nothing to see besides stone steps and gray walls. However, Dick quickly becomes aware of a drop in temperature. A dramatic one. One that seeps through his sweat soaked clothes and straight into his bones like freezing little needles.

It's when they reach the basement floor he realizes why it's so cold, dark, and secretive down here. 

It can hardly even be called a basement once Dick gets a good look. 

It's more like a dungeon. Long hallways, iron doors with iron bars, dim candles built into the walls… 

It's Slade Wilson's personal prison. 

Which is strange, because Slade doesn't often take prisoners. Dick's normally the only one to own that title when it comes to Slade. 

Slade doesn't give him a chance to really take in everything and just continues down into the _dungeon_ , passing door after door, each holding just glimpses of various dangerous looking tools and chains and contraptions… ones that have Dick's head spinning just by thinking about the range of torture that can be performed in each room.

His bewilderment must be more obvious than what he meant it to be, because Slade turns to look at him and lets out a chuckle.

"You have questions," he notes. 

Dick swallows and turns his head from the doors. He forces himself to look Slade right in the eye. Or… the hole where his one eye is hidden under. "… I do."

"Ask."

Deep breathes. "What is this place? Why are we…"

Slade chuckles and turns away, grabbing at a ring of keys from within one of his pockets. It seems the _no locked doors_ policy doesn't apply down here. "I didn't plan on taking you down here so soon," Slade explains, turning down a seemingly random corner. "I planned for you to know this place… intimately… soon enough. Except, well, something came up. And I supposed this portion of training could begin a bit earlier than planned."

He stops in front of a door, one that's more heavier fortified than the rest they had passed. The iron widow on the door is covered by a steel plate, possibly making the inside completely shrouded in darkness. 

Dick watches with growing anxiety as Slade pushes the key into the door, turns it, then steps back to allow Dick a clear, complete view on what's inside. 

His stomach twists violently. His breath leaves his lungs like he's taken a violent blow to the gut. 

There's chains hanging from the center of the dark room, shackles locking tightly over clenched, bare wrists. There's a boy hanging from them, his uncovered toes just one chain link away from having enough purchase to let his heels touch the grime covered ground. He's not wearing a shirt, and his pants are torn near his knees. 

Wrapped around his eyes is a blindfold. Over his mouth is a painfully tight looking leather gag. Locked over his ears is a pair of what is definitely sound canceling headphones. 

Damian. 

Dick finds himself backing away, his heart in his throat, but he quite predictably runs into Slade's chest. He can feel every single one of his nerves twist violently as Slade wraps his fingers around Dick's biceps to keep him standing there, in the doorway, with the perfect view of his littlest brother hanging in chains. 

Then, his eyes slide to the side of the room where there are metal tables set with… with _tools_. Knives. Hammers. Whips. Pliers. _Brands_. 

He almost chokes on his tongue when Slade leans down so his mouth is right by Dick's ear. "He tried to fight me all alone on my last visit to Gotham, demanding to know where you are. I easily took him down, but he needs to be taught a lesson, don't you think?"

Slade’s last trip to Gotham was three days ago. Has Damian been here… _hanging_ here for that long?

"Slade…" Dick whispers, shocked that his voice still exists at all. 

The hands on his biceps tighten. 

"Master-" Dick quickly corrects himself, but it doesn't fix a single thing. Stirn, unmoving hands begin to force him to walk forward until he's fully inside of the cell, able to smell the faint reek of a child's sweat, and the smudges of blood that stick to his skin. Dick clutches his fists so tightly he can feel his fingernails threaten to break skin. The closer he gets, the more wounds he can see on Damian's mostly naked body. 

Slade was careful taking him down. 

"Now here's what you're going to do," Slade growls while Damian continues to hang there. Blinded, deafened, gagged, helpless, probably completely unaware that they're in the room. He lets go of Dick's arms and walks towards Damian. He curls a hand in Damian's hair, causing the boy to tense. 

Dick wants to scream. 

"You're going to do exactly as I say with no back talk." Slade tugs on Damian's hair, causing a muffled grunt, before he taps the pointer finger of his free hand right onto Damian's left temple. Right where the X-rays showed where the bombs were implanted. "Or else."

Dick can hardly sort his thoughts. He can barely breathe. All he can focus on is the hand in Damian's hair, watching as Slade pulls his head back so his neck is exposed, showing the beginnings of an Adam's apple that bobs nervously. 

"Master-" Dick gasps, he can't even keep his voice even. 

Slade squeezes his hand in Damian's hair, causing Damian to bend backwards even more and release short, almost panicked breaths. The sensory deprivation must not be doing any favors for him. The way his toes barely touch the ground doesn't even allow him to feel for vibrations. 

"Pick up the knife, boy." 

And something shatters in Dick's chest. "Please, Master- I'll do _anything-_ "

"Pick up the _knife_!" Slade snarls, and Dick can't help a full body flinch. "If you question me one more time, I'll chain you up to watch me break him myself. Only, if I do it, I'll make sure he dies slowly, and painfully. I won't even use the bomb."

Dick wants to cry. Instead, he sucks in a breath and turns to the table, picking up the first knife he sees with shaking hands. He tells himself that he's doing this to _save_ Damian's life. That if he does as he's told… Slade should let Damian go. 

Teach him a lesson. Teach him a _lesson_. 

Slade's not sending a message. He's teaching a _lesson_. Which means he won't be forced to _kill_ Damian. 

Just learn how to torture him. 

"Good boy." Dick can practically hear the smile in Slade's voice as he finally lets go of Damian, backing up so the boy is left hanging in his shackles, breathing hard and definitely fighting off anxious twitches.

He holds the knife out in front of him, the light is low in the cell, but he can definitely tell how sharp the edges are. He honestly would rather plunge this knife into his own heart than put it against his _kid…_ but Dick has a feeling Slade wouldn't let Dick go that easily. Somehow, Slade won't let Dick die here. He'll keep Dick alive, then chain him up, and force him to watch Damian gain gruesome death that he doesn't _deserve_. 

He's helping Damian. He's _helping_ Damian. He's doing this to make sure he lives. That they all live. 

So he holds the knife out in front of him, approaches, and forces his face to not show how much distress he's in. His lips wobbles, and Slade definitely notices it, but he doesn't comment on it. Just chuckles.

God, Dick hates him so much.

"Put the edge against his jaw… but don't press hard enough to cut flesh," Slade says, and Dick crawls away to some corner of his mind to do exactly as he's told. Robotically. Not feeling anything. His brain is screaming. "Run it down his neck, yes just like that. Trail the tip over his chest, not cutting, but let him feel it. Let him imagine the things it can do to him. We will prove his expectations to be underdeveloped in a minute-"

And Dick does as he's told. He trails the knife over Damian's skin, forcing himself not to flinch every time Damian's breath catches. He brushes where Slade tells him to brush, threatens with a small push when Slade tells him to threaten. 

He breaks skin on Damian's back when Slade tells him to break skin. 

_I'm sorry Damian_ , he can only scream inside his mind as digs the blade in at an awkward and extremely painful angle near Damian's collar bone. 

The kid writhes and certainly does his best to ignore the torture… but he eventually screams through the gag. 

And Dick keeps doing as he's told. The shattered pieces of his sole are now a fine, crushed dust. 

"There we go…" Slade compliments happily, when the first tear appears under Damian's blindfold. "You're doing great, apprentice."

And it doesn't stop there. And Dick keeps doing as he's told. He keeps pressing the knife. He keeps trailing it. Tearing skin. Puncturing sensitive places. Using Damian's struggles and tremors against him. 

Like a monster. 

_I'm so sorry. I'm so_ ** _so_ ** _sorry._

Eventually, Slade finally tells him to stop. Dick backs away like Damian’s fire. He watches with wide eyes as Damian sags against the chains and heaves a shaking breath that rattles his entire blood splattered chest.

“Go upstairs, shower, and go to bed,” Slade says, putting a hand on Dick’s shoulder. Dick can’t help it, he flinches. All he can think about is how Damian is desperately trying to get a hold of himself. Unaware that the torture is over. Unaware that it was _Dick_ who… who… who did this. Slade doesn’t seem to care about Dick’s flinch. He just tightens his iron strong grip and leans closer to Dick’s ear. His mask is off now. Dick can tell by his familiar hot breath against his cheek and ear. “You did good, apprentice. I’m proud of you.”

“What…” Dick breaths, memorizing every line of red on Damian’s skin that _he_ caused. Dick swallows down a mouthful of vomit that tries to rise. “What about-”

The grip on his shoulder shifts, thick fingers squeeze the base of his neck dangerously. “I said go upstairs. Shower. And Go. To. Bed. The brat is no longer your concern.”

There’s a threat in Slade’s voice. One that Dick has been conditioned to immediately obey for fear of worse punishment. Fear of a button being pressed and every single one of his siblings…

He looks at Damian for a heartbeat longer; tells himself that Slade will let Damian go. That Damian will soon be back at the manor and recovering. 

Dick nods his head then turns heel, forcing that little pit of despair to turn into something that could be mistaken as hope. He walks past all the other cells, not looking inside a single door, before he’s running up the stairs two at a time and sprinting to his room.

The moment he’s in his bedroom—a large one at that, but filled with nothing but a bed and a dresser—he beelines to his bathroom and is already stripping his clothes before he can close the door behind him. He tries to wipe his arms and hands with his shirt as he takes off his garment, but he can still see smudges of red on his skin. He turns on the water as hot as it can go then collapses by the open toilet.

He empties everything in his stomach, then continues gagging every time he smells blood on his body until steam has completely fogged up the mirror.

He flushes the toilet and steps into the scalding water, hardly even noticing how his skin burns.

All he’s aware of is the red running pink down the drain, and the drops of water on his cheeks that is definitely from the spray of the shower.

He’s not sure he’ll ever forgive himself.

He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to fully wash the blood from his body.

All he can do is stand there and let the practically boiling temperature of the water assist his emotional turmoil in becoming something physical.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian knows more than what he lets on.
> 
> Dick finds himself slipping further under Slade's thumb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome. please, please, sit. pull up a chair. get comfortable. 
> 
> slight warning, this chapter has vague threats of rape/non-con. these threats are vague and almost blink and youll miss it. have no fear though, there will be none of that in this story. just threats. because slade wilson is a wonderful asshole.

It's been about five minutes since anyone's touched Damian. This is the only evidence that he has that the torture is over. His entire body stings, and he feels similar to what a turkey must feel like on Thanksgiving day. 

All carved up. 

His shoulders ache, as do his hands, both of which have been tasked with carrying his entire body weight for the past few hours. However, all of his limbs felt weak and sensitive even before Deathstroke grabbed him from the corner of the cell he's been sitting in for the past… probably three or four days… and strung him up.

Every single cut along his body is like poisoned tipped needles, and he can feel blood dripping from almost every part of his person down to his pants, legs, feet, making a very uncomfortable puddle to stand in at the tips of his toes. 

A brush of air across his cheek is the only warning he gets before the blindfold and headphones are ripped off. Damian resists grasping, blinking his teary eyes to try and focus, his ears feeling numb. 

In front of him is none other than Deathstroke, an array of weapons on a table behind him, however the only one that's bloody is a simple knife. 

He quickly looks around the rest of the room, searching, but then thick fingers grab his cheeks and force Damian to look Deathstroke straight in the face. Damian glares and clenches his fists. 

"Grayson isn't here, brat," Deathstroke says smoothly. "So your little act can end. I know your pain tolerance is higher than that."

Damian narrows his eyes as Deathstroke uses his free hand to loosen the buckle of the cursed gag. The second it's out of his mouth, he spits at Deathstroke's face. There's specks of red in his saliva, but Damian assumes it's from the cut corners of his cheek thanks to that gag. He's been tasting copper for quite some time now.

The thing about Deathstroke's mask is that you can never tell what he's thinking, which is why Damian braced himself for a slap the second the assassin raised his hand. However, Deathstroke simply wipes the spit off his mask and then proceeds to brush it off in Damian's hair. 

"Where's Richard?" Damian hisses, tugging on the chains holding him up. "I know he was here."

"How, pray tell?" Deathstroke says, his voice teetering between a scoff and amusement.

Damian strengthens his glare and ignores the stream of blood that passes over his eyebrow and trails down the corner of his eyes. "I know the difference between the hand of a sadist, and the hand of a reluctant third party. You forced him to hurt me."

Deathstroke's entire posture shifts. His head tilts and he's shoulders follow suit. A knee bends ever so slowly. It grates on Damian's tolerance to see the man so full of himself, so confident in Damian's presence. To think just a few months before, this guy was stubbornly trying to convince Damian that he was his actual birth father.

Pathetic. 

"And what difference is that?" He asks. Curiosity lacing his tone. 

Damian bites the inside of his cheek. 

The reason his pain tolerance is so high is because it was trained into him. Ra's Al Ghul forced his mother to convict the deed while he was still a small child. Richard's hand against his skin, dragging a knife in painful ways felt exactly the same as his own mother's. 

But neither of them have felt like the rouge's of Gotham. The random crooks. Deathstroke himself. 

Damian decides to not answer that question out loud. Instead, he twists his bleeding lips into a snarl. "Whatever you're trying to do, it isn't going to work. Richard isn't yours."

"No," Deathstroke agrees, finally beginning to back off. He turns to the table filled with torture devised and Damian feels himself tense. Richard at the instruction of Deathstroke _hurt_. But the psychopath himself? However, Deathstroke turns and grabs a small box from the corner, one that when he opens it is filled with bandages and other various medical instruments.

Damian watches wearily as Deathstroke approaches, pulling out thread and a curved needle. 

As he threads the needle, Deathstroke continues to speak. "He's not mine. Not yet. But he will be. He has it in him, I've just got to remind him of it."

"By having him torture his brother?"

"By having him torture his _son_."

Damian's not sure why he flinches there. He tells himself it's because Deathstroke jabbed the needle through a deep cut in his shoulder. Damian quickly forces himself to become composed. "You're a foolish old man. Richard isn't my-"

"Biological father, no." The tugging of thread forcing itself though his already irritated skin without any numbing is agonizing. Damian doesn't voice his pain, just continues to glare while Deathstroke's finishes up that stitch, then moves on to the next one. "But we both know that blood has nothing to do with the bond between a parent and a child. Do not try to lie to me boy, I know how Grayson ticks. I know how you tick."

"You know nothing about us," Damian snarls. "I'm no more important to him than any of the others."

Deathstroke chuckles at that, like he's already won, and then he doesn't say anything more, just continues to stitch Damian up from the cuts he forced Richard to inflict. Damian doesn't try to converse. There's no point to. It's almost impossible to get anything from Deathstroke, especially if he feels like he's already won.

Soon enough, Deathstroke is taping the worst of the cuts. Once he's done with that, he reaches up to the shackles that have long since cut off most of the circulation to Damian's fingers. "Fight me, and I'll string you up by your ankles," Deathstroke mutters before taking off the shackles. 

Damian can't help it, he falls into Deathstroke's waiting arms. He tenses, but doesn't fight, as Deathstroke practically drags him out of the torture room and into the original cell Damian has awoken in. A manacle connected to the center of the floor is attached to his ankle, then Deathstroke steps back, leaving Damian to stand there with wobbly balance and glare. 

"What are you holding against him?" Damian demands before Deathstroke can leave. "Why would he join you?"

When Deathstroke speaks, there's a smirk in his voice. "Absolutely nothing, _baby bird_. I recommend you quit worrying about him and think about your own survival. The quicker you let yourself break, the quicker we can be done with this."

Damian growls, about to step forward and… he doesn't know, throw a fist or something, but then Deathstroke laughs and walks out, making the cell grow dark with the clanking sound of a bolt locking. 

It's thankfully not as dark as it was in the other cell. This one is meant for long term captivity, a bed shoved in a corner and a bucket in another. There's a slot at the bottom of the door where food and water will be shoved through three times a day if Deathstroke keeps up his patterns.

He wants to keep Damian alive and healthy. There's no fun in torturing a barely alive captive. The food even tasted good. 

Damian hobbles to the bucket and smirks. It's been emptied. A small revenge. The image of Deathstroke cleaning out a human waste filled bucket, even if it's his own human waste, has him keeping a smile on his face until he settles down onto the thin mattress with springs that stick up like a bed of nails. 

He stares at the ceiling for five minutes, getting out of his body and every stitch that insistently pulses to remind him it's still there. He stays that way until his breathing is even and his eyes are drooping. 

He rubs the nail of his ring finger on his left hand, and then brushes his right hand across his temple. 

"Any day now, Timothy..."

Nothing changes and Damian sighs, preparing himself for the long run. 

-o-o-o-o-

Slade doesn't say anything about what he made Dick do for the next three days. He would have continued to say nothing if Dick hadn't looked so out of it during their morning sparring session. 

But Dick did look out of it. He knows he did. Still does. He had a nightmare again last night, and he's come to the realization that Slade hasn't left the mansion at all since he made… since _that_. 

So he looks out of it. Sue him. 

"What's on your mind?" Slade asks in a way that almost sounds like a demand. Dick dodges under a swinging kick aiming for his head and then shoots forward to grab Slade around the ribs. 

"Nothing, sir," Dick grunts as Slade grabs his shoulders and practically throws Dick to the side. Curse Slade's superhuman strength. All the years Dick's known him and he still doesn't know exactly how strong Slade really is. 

He blinks shadowed memories of Grant out of his mind. 

"Don't lie to me." Slade punches Dick in the stomach while he was trying to get back to his feet. 

All the air leaves Dick's lungs as he collapses to the floor. A heavy boot lands in the center of his back, which makes it all the more impossible to catch his breath. 

"You'd be able to dodge that if you weren't distracted."

Dick grinds his teeth. He hates this. Hates it to his core. 

"I'm just…" he licks his lips, hoping Slade doesn't best him up for this. "I'm just worried about Damian…"

The foot on his back doesn't bring more pressure like he almost expected, but it doesn't let up either. 

A second passes. Then Slade's ever smooth voice. "I told you the boy was no longer your concern."

"I know, sir, I just… he was really hurt and-"

Slade interrupts before Dick can say _and_ _I'm not sure you let him go like you said you would_.

"I made sure he wouldn't bleed to death, if that's what you're worried about."

The pressure on Dick's finally becomes greater, he can practically feel it bending his spine. He grimaces as Slade leans down and frowns at Dick. 

"Anything beyond that is none of your concern."

His face is deathly still. Serious. Dick can't argue, because if he does then something bad will happen. "Yes… master."

Slade gives a stiff nod then steps off of Dick. "Now get up. Focus on training, unless you want a beating."

-o-o-o-o-

Somehow, after that, Dick manages to convince himself that Damian is _fine_. Slade has never lied to Dick before. Everything he says is honest. He has no reason to _lie_. 

If he said he'd let Damian go after Damian was _taught_ a lesson, then he'd let Damian go. 

It's as simple as that. 

He doesn't think about it for two more days. He doesn't think about it for two more days filled with the same old routine. Hours of training, of roaming, of sitting in the gym and dreading Slade's footsteps. Of missing his family. Of wanting to go home. 

Two more days almost becomes three when suddenly, right as he's preparing himself for bed, Slade walks in without even knocking. Dick grinds his teeth, feeling vulnerable with his shirt off and his pants just barely riding on his hips. Slade hasn't shown any… _intentions_ … towards Dick since he's been here, but Dick wouldn't put it past the guy. 

He turns and tries to not glare. He probably does anyway. Slade doesn't seem to care, he just leans against the doorway and folds his arms across his chest. 

"Get dressed."

Dick knows better than to ask why. Instead he asks what, and Slade replies something he doesn't mind getting dirty. 

Dick doesn't mind any of his clothes getting dirty. They're all _gifts_ from Slade. Not a single pair of clothes here down to his underwear was something he originally owned. But… he supposes he doesn't want to get his only pair of pajamas dirty. 

So, with Slade watching, he undresses and slips into a baggy pair of jeans and a crew-neck tee-shirt.

It's what he's been working out in since…

He stuffed his original gym clothes under his bed, let's leave it at that.

"Come," Slade says the second Dick is dressed. Dick glances longingly at his bed, then follows along without any argument. 

And then? Slade stops in front of the basement door, and Dick can't help but flinch back like he's been electrocuted. Somehow? Right then and there?

He _knows_. 

"You lied," he gasps before he can stop himself. Slade turns and raises an unamused eyebrow. Anger swirls in Dick's stomach like a whirlpool. "Damian's _still_ down there."

Slade grins, and Dick feels his breath catch in his throat. "I said he can go after he's taught a lesson."

"But he _was_ -" Dick stumbles over his words, struggles to keep himself from letting loose and charging at Slade with a flinging fist. 

"His lesson isn't a simple torture session," Slade chides, almost like he's pitying Dick. 

Dick can hardly breathe. Damian's _down_ _there_ , and Dick's been up here happily delusioned into thinking he's safe and sound back home? Dick gulps down air like it's made of molasses. "Then- then- _when_ -?"

"When he's _broken_ ," Slade practically purrs. Dick feels liquid nitrogen replace every single blood cell. "When he's _begging_. We will continue this pattern, over and over again, until you no longer hesitate in your actions, until he's _choking_ on his own sobs and telling _you_ , not me, _you_ to stop."

Dick recalls immediately every single cut he gave Damian close to a week ago. He thinks about having to reopen those wounds, cause more, keep going until everything he has and _is_ becomes stained with unwashable blood.

He still takes hot showers. He can still smell it in the quiet hours of midnight. 

Slade sneers. "Don't worry so much, apprentice, there are more ways to torture someone than drawing blood."

Dick's heart feels like it hasn't only skipped a heartbeat as Slade steps closer... but that it's completely stopped all together. 

"There are some things worse than making wounds and causing pain."

Dick understands what he means. He understands what he means and he can feel it settle in that whirlpool of rage like a heavy boulder. He turns towards Slade, and tries to keep his voice even. "Master... Please, you have to be joking."

"I'm not," Slade says, "and you know you'll do it too if I tell you to. You'll do it because if you don't, I'll kill him and all of your other siblings." Slade pauses, his smirk widens. "How would that feel, boy? To take your own child's innocence?"

Bastard. Psychopath. _A sadistic and perverted piece of shit._ His stomach twists and before he can even think it through, he launches forward with a yell. Slade's one eye widens right before Dick socks him across the jaw. However, before Dick can attempt to do anything else, a heavy fist slams into his gut, right below his ribs. Every single molecule of air leaves his lungs and he's left gasping, choking, and holding back the urge to vomit; helpless to do anything but wheeze as he's grabbed by the color of his shirt and slammed against the basement door.

The knob jams mercilessly against his hip, and he might have cried out if he had any air left to spare. 

Instead, he can only attempt to catch his breath; his hands weakly grasping onto Slade's.

"Is this really what you want to be doing right now, Grayson?!" Slade hisses, a purple bruise on his jaw fading into clear complexion as he speaks. "Do you really want to fight me now? Like this?"

Dick chokes as Slade presses harder against his shirt, each hand feeling like stakes driven though his collarbones. 

"Let me tell you now boy," Slade sneers. Dick's heart stutters like an old BMW. "I don't intend for it to be taken that far. _You_ don't want it to be taken that far. That's why, when you go down there, you're going to do your damndest to _make_. It. Count. The sooner you quit letting your annoying feelings on your family affect you, the sooner the brat can go home. Hurt. Traumatized. But _alive_."

"Fuck you," Dick spits. For a second, pure annoyance flashes through Slade's face, but all he does is let go of Dick like he's touched something worse than trash. 

Slade brushes his hands together, and gives Dick a steady look as Dick's finally allowed to suck in a lungful of air. He coughs, then glares. 

Slade simply stares back at him with sharp eyes. "Stop fighting me, apprentice. Accept this is new life and move on from your _family_. You're not leaving this one, kid. You're going to succeed me one day, you'll be _ruthless_." He pauses. Then his lips begin to twitch back into that infuriating smirk. "And you'll love it."

"I won't become you," Dick risks arguing back. "You can control me, use me for the rest of my life. You can force me to _kill_ , but I'll never be _you_."

"Yeah," Slade says, grabbing Dick's shoulder and squeezing. It takes every ounce of strength he has to not flinch as Slade prods him to step out of the way of that blasted basement door. "Keep telling yourself that kid, it will be all the more enjoyable for me to watch yourself realize how wrong you are."

And with that, the door opens, revealing the dark and condoning depths down below. Dick's legs feel frozen until Slade impatiently tugs on his shoulders. Dick feels similar to the depressing atmosphere of the staircase as he slowly begins to walk down, having nothing to feel but the cold dread of the future. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> until next time! ya'll screamed so lovely in the last chapter. i would love it if you screamed at me again :3
> 
> next chapter will be fun. this one was simply the calm before a storm.

**Author's Note:**

> -pokes head up from under a rock-
> 
> uh. scream at me in comments?
> 
> the more people that scream at me in comments the more likely i might actually continue this one..................
> 
> so........ 
> 
> -goes back under a rock before my damian stan friends can snipe me-


End file.
